


Ascension

by JadeLavellan (Jadestone)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Love/Hate, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:03:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4871035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadestone/pseuds/JadeLavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I signed up for a random numbers pairing/theme and I got: Corypheus/Trevelyan, + Dreams & Nightmares, and Samson for a side character.</p><p>Ha ha... I... this was started off as a joke but it turns out I'm incapable of crackfic and it got more than a little out of hand and now I'm in too deep</p><p>maker forgive me for the words I am about to write. posting it to the k!meme <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15060.html?thread=58097364">here</a> since I lost the link to the original prompt game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

> _How does this age stand such desolation? They sing to a “Maker” who answers no prayers. Once I have ascended, **I** will be their answer. **I** will be their light._  

__________

 

He comes to her at the place they called their Haven, filled with scorn and the steady burn of righteousness. He tires of sending others to do his own work; of watching them fail again and again. The thief had snatched his moment of glory from him, claimed it just before it had finally bestowed him with the power he deserved. He could feel it even now, a bight pulsing within the Trevelyan woman, taunting him.

Corypheus comes to Haven to reclaim what is his.

In smoke and fire he descends, to pluck out the bright jewel of magic that is his due. She does not back down, facing him boldly and with a fury that mirrors his own. Their brief encounter at the Conclave had offered him only a frustrating glimpse of the thief before the world tore asunder, and it satisfies him now to crush her for her impudence. Determined eyes meet his own, bright with terror and outrage. He will take back what is his, and then destroy her for daring to challenge his might. But the moment he reaches for the power gifted by the Orb, to twist it away from the struggling woman dangling in his grip—everything changes.

  

The magic he reaches for is overwhelming, and it is filled with _her_ —her terrified rage; her determined sacrifice. The Mark teems with a disgusting humanity he had all but forgotten—sinking its way through the cracks in his red-riddled flesh, plunging like daggers into his lyrium-encrusted heart. It is the magic of freedom and contentment, of summer skies and soft rains, and it is unbearable. The torrent of emotions and memories and dreams that are not his own scorches through his husk of a soul, tormenting him with everything he’d forgotten he’d lost.

Abruptly, he releases her, snatching himself away from her excruciating humanity, shaking with the pain of a past he thought he had abandoned all ties to. He has been absolute in his devotion to his new goal, he cannot stand this—this _doubt_ , this torment of everything he had abandoned—

“You have spoilt it with your stumbling,” he tells her bitterly, lying to them both. To take the Mark into himself now would taint him twice-over; restore what he had gladly sacrificed when he succumbed to the Song. Even now, its constant wail in his mind falters, the touch of the Trevelyan’s spirit overpowering the blissful melody in its raucous dissonance.

He must kill her, he knows; put an end to the maddening wave of emotions that buffets him still. He can feel her dread and her snarling anger; and the cold, calm certainty beneath them that she is going to die. But too late does he sense her ploy; her cleverness and hands quicker than her heart. She slashes the rope and the mountains fall; and instead of consuming her in his wrath, he flees in the sheltering wings of fire and smoke. He flees the icy tumbling of the avalanche, and the horrible senses she has wakened in him, clinging inside his chest where before had burned only the cold desire to achieve his goal. He would ascend to the discarded throne of the Maker; become these god these fools deserved. None of them had seen it; none of them understood how utterly abandoned they truly were. If they did, they would welcome him. If they knew, they would rejoice in his triumph.

The certainty that what he is doing is right fills him, as always. He will take the world and break it into pieces, so that he can build something better. He will not let more be deceived as he was; he will bring war to the very heavens until he has filled the emptiness that plagues them all.

He tries to ignore the fragments of feelings that are _not_ his, yet pepper his heart, unasked for and unwelcome. The brief connection that had joined him to the hateful woman when he tried to rip the mark from her hums inside him, staining his devotion. He doubted she was even aware of the link she had unknowingly forged—he would have to tear it out. But for now, the swirl of emotions fester like flowers in his mind, seeds anchoring themselves to his soul, and he knows nothing but bitterness.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He thought that her impression would fade, and he was wrong. The blighted magister waits for the torment of the woman’s emotions to subdue; to once more be overcome with nothing but the Song and his purpose. Instead, they churn like embers in his mind, disrupting the careful plans and ponderings he has worked so hard to plant in this broken world. It is like the biting of gnats—only an irritant, to begin, but steadily growing more and more distracting.

At first, the fading and flickering chain between them was tenuous, as she struggled simply to survive. He had assumed nature would take its course as the limping fool battled the frozen tundra, and he would be rid of her once and for all, with only the barest regret that she had blemished the power he’d been destined to unlock. But somehow she had not only endured the collapse of Haven, but managed to secret her puny forces away inside a fortress impenetrable with the echoes of long-dead magic. The spells feel ancient, even to him, sealing the Herald and her followers behind walls even he cannot breach.  

And as her strength grows, so does her presence in his mind. It is no difficulty to wall her off from his thoughts, lest she continue meddling in his meticulous plotting, but the woman seems to have no sense that she should do the same. Had this age truly fallen so far, that such basic training was neglected? Corypheus was once the greatest of his company; the first among the Seven High Priests. It was impossible—infuriating—that he could not seem to shake loose the pathetic excuse for a leader in this time, one who didn’t even seem to be aware of the link she’d forced upon him. Instead, her petty grievances and sighs batter themselves against him day after day, disrupting his thoughts and his devotion.

Her pride, as a sword is pressed into her palm, and lifted before the pitiful mortals who cling to her every word. Her worry that she might let them down. Her simple delight in exploring the very halls that firmly repel him. Even when she ventures forth, her thoughts are never quite enough to tell where she is and prepare a strike—she is too distracted by the infuriatingly mundane. She spends hours chatting and running errands for all the contemptible commonfolk she meets, muddying his prayers with their dull concerns and petty grievances. Don’t they understand the world has already ended?

But all they care about are their baser instincts, living their short lives like moths battering themselves against a candle, with no thought to higher purposes. He had forsaken all such ties to his humanity when he devoted himself to Dumat; when he set upon the path that leads him now to his ascension. Corypheus pushes the thoughts aside, and forges on.

 

__________

  

Corypheus’ second mistake was underestimating just how deeply their sickening bond had penetrated his defenses. When he surrendered his physical form to the Song, his need for most mortal comforts faded with it. But every so often, when he pushes himself harder than his magic allows, the weaknesses resurface and cloud both his mind and his actions. The only cure is to give in and allow the frail remnants of his body the rest it demands.

So it is not until many weeks after his mistake at Haven that the full strength of her imprint upon him becomes clear.

Corypheus closes his eyes in the waking realm, and opens them within the Fade. But everything is wrong. He is used to the perplexity of dreams; he is used to the pull and luring of the demons that inhabit it. How else could his order have conquered and forced their entry, but by becoming masters of their own minds? Ever since he has awoken, his corner of the Fade has shown only exactly what he knows it to truly be: desolate and empty, a mirror with nothing to reflect but his own bitter disappointment.

But no longer. He is wrenched from his barren haunt, almost immediately snatched and hurled into the mire of someone else’s memories and thoughts. They swirl about him in confusing eddies, landscapes that don’t quite match up and faces he does not recognize. He stands apart: pulled towards the churning vortex of the dreamer, but refusing to become a piece of it, even as the Fade struggles to account for his presence and bend him into a more fitting shape.

Corypheus does not allow it. He stands rigid and fuming, keeping himself shadowed and dark despite the bright warm light of the dream. To show himself would be to invite weakness, to give her an opening, and he refuses it with icy determination. The walls of his mind are slammed shut, his thoughts and power pulled tight into himself where they cannot give away his identity.

For it is, of course, her. Who else would it be? Along with the ability to create the doorway he has sought for so long, the Anchor has also gifted her with the abilities he had to fight and claw his way to obtain, so many ages ago. The Fade shifts and shapes itself to there Trevelyan woman’s every whim, and she does not even seem to be aware of her newfound powers.

Or of his intrusion. She is not nearly so careful with her thoughts, just as reckless with them here as when she is awake, unaware of their link and everything she spills across it. Here, already wrapped within the places called up from her memory, it is even more disorienting, a vague double-vision of the same scene he views both as himself and through her perceptions. But even if she does not realize who he is, his presence, a black shade in her colorful scene, draws her attention.

She turns to look at him, and his lips curl in disgust at her naive and open curiosity.

“Who are you?” she asks. Her eyes are wide and trusting as her mouth shapes the soft words, clearly audible through their bond despite the distance between them. She is still unaware that she is only dreaming, that she should be terrified. It is all he can do not to reach out and grasp her slender neck between his hands, to choke her until the dream collapses and she realizes what a fatal mistake she has made in forcing him here.

But killing her in dreams will accomplish nothing in the waking world, and his own pleasure from it would be short-lived. Corypheus does not reply. He stands stiffly, fighting the urge to bat her away with his own power as her awareness washes over him in waves, struggling to pull him closer so she can understand what he is. When he resists, she takes a step towards him herself.

Before she can come any nearer, he rips himself from the Fade, slamming his spirit with a jolt back into his body. He awakens, hardly rested, but forces himself to prepare for another day anyway. His tether to her is dimmed now that he is beyond her presence—Corypheus tells himself this is why he must busy himself with his work now, while her mind is less of a bother, distracted with its own matters while she wanders within the Fade.

It has nothing to do with the memory of the way she looked at him, eyes wide and trusting, uncomprehending of the horror he truly is. 

Nothing at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... yep. when you've dug yourself into a pit of shame already, might as well keep on digging.


	3. Chapter 3

Corypheus does not sleep for weeks. He doesn’t have time. With every day, his forces grow, his network of soldiers and informants spiderwebbing across this blighted land—but so do hers. Wherever he spreads his influence, Inquisition troops rear up to meet his followers. Almost every time his sway manages to seep into one sect or another, hers follows, driving him back. 

Almost every time. 

Despite their brutal dance of authority and blades, seeds of his power slip through, his persuasion slowly winning one or another firmly to his cause. It is a skewed, slow way of seizing the control he needs—but it is progress, Corypheus tells himself. That is all that matters. Restoring the world to what it _should_ be, what it had never truly been before. It is so tiring. It is only this reason why he cannot afford the time to sleep, not the thought of encountering her once more.

He rests in Orlais, his despicable tie to the Inquisitor too distracting at any closer distance. But the location serves his purpose well enough, as he sends his followers to scout out those who had dared to keep him imprisoned. It will be amusing to use them for his aims. As well as just. 

And, every week, he returns to his Shrine; the shrine of the god to whom he had devoted himself; to whom he had offered _everything_. In the shifting glow of the room he kneels to pray, and the words tumble form his lips as easily as they always have. Every time, he sings to his former master just as the lyrium now sings for him; and he is met with only silence.

This visit it is the same. Corypheus’ body sways with weariness as he mouths his way through the rites. This weakness in him should not be tolerated, _cannot_ be—it is a disgrace that a single mortal in this weakened age should have such power over him, to make him avoid what was his to rightfully conquer. His hands tremble as he places the offerings. And afterwards, as always, there is no response—only the whispers of the Inquisitor’s life filtering into his mind, not even allowing him this ritual peace. It is too much to bear. 

_“DUMAT!”_ he bellows into the hall, his grief-deep voice rattling the pillars and disrupting the sacred stillness. He knows, he knows; there is no one left to right the world but him. But he can’t help but listen—for the familiar whispers, for guidance. 

There is no answer. There is no one to hear.

Exhausted, he lowers his head to the floor, eyes closed in anguish. Supplicated before the cracking statues, he surrenders to his fatigue, and allows his mind to slip into the Fade.

 

__________

 

There must have been a few hours of peace, while the Inquisitor moved through the waking world as he slept—but he does not remember them. Corypheus is aware only when he is pulled, magnetically, back into her presence upon her entry to the Fade. As before, he cloaks himself in darkness, refusing to be drawn into her manipulation of the Veil. 

In the weeks since their last encounter, the Inquisitor has already gained a remarkable amount of control over her skills. Instead of a swirl of half-remembered scenes and jagged fragments, the landscape has settled into a more enduring shape. Ruins, trees—Corypheus does not recognize the location; nor does he particularly care. He does not want to know the history that moved through the world while he slept, everything he was forced to miss in his imprisonment. It is only another reminder of their ancient failure.

Trevelyan once more walks through her dream, confident in her newfound skill. She does not notice him at first, a shadowed statue in the soft twilight. Even in the Fade, she looks haggard and weary, shoulders slouched even as she gazes with interest at the ruined towers around her. She has traded her soft robes for something more armored, heavy fabric and chainmail clinging to her lithe form, a symbol of surrender to her new role. Corypheus stands still, waiting for this trial to be over, and watches her. He looks for signs of weakness, for any failings he can exploit. If he is going to be trapped here, it only makes sense to try to use it to his advantage. As long as he does not involve himself. 

When she notices him, she seems wary, but unsurprised. He does not move as she approaches, not even deigning to turn his face down to acknowledge her as she hesitates a few paces away. But still, he is surprised when she dares to speak.

“Can you tell me about this place, De—Spirit?” she asks him. “What was this? Did you live here?”

A flash of contempt. He thought she might understand the workings of the Fade, but if she could confuse _him_ for a meager wisp, she clearly has no real knowledge of the power she’d stolen. It is wasted on her, contaminated by her presence even more than he is. 

She steps closer, misinterpreting his silence. It would be so _easy_ to twist his fingers into her hair and slam her into the stones, and his limbs tense with the effort of restraining the violent surge as it pulses through him. 

Trevelyan is frowning. “You feel… different. What are you, Spirit?” Tentatively, she stretches out a hand, as though she would dare to brush her fingers against his shrouded form. Her left hand. 

Reflexively, he blasts her backwards with a wave of power, the clinging shadows rearing up defensively. She stumbles, startled, fear finally drenching her panic-widening eyes. It is ill advised, he knows, but he cannot bear the thought of her skin touching his; cannot risk it. Their connection here is already too loud, drowning out everything else, so that even his power is but a sliver of what he should be able to wield. 

But his reaction startles the Inquisitor, and her instinctive control of the dream wavers, and slips. The Anchor in her hand flares, bright green in the soft light, and with a cry of pain she tumbles from the Fade, and Coryphus is once more alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still here and I'm still trash. Super busy with work, but I think instead of having giant waits between sections, I'm going to try writing these shorter chapters and posting more often, so it doesn't get delayed with work from my longer, more serious fic. 
> 
> but anyway that seems like enough burn, let's get on with the shameful hatesex already, come on


End file.
